


Hope

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes hope is all you've got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt 'murrini' (coloured patterns used in blown glass.) This was another tough one.
> 
> * * *

They manage to ditch the bulk of the herd two blocks south, ducking through hedges and scrambling through unkempt backyards filled with knee high weeds. Daryl lets Glenn take the lead, ‘cause the kid’s got some kind of freaky sixth sense when it comes to finding his way even if it is some upscale suburb he ain’t never seen before, and Daryl needs to focus all of his attention on watching their backs anyhow.

He takes out two more walkers – one of ‘em a close call, fucker hiding behind one of them cedar gazebos, staggers out and has almost snagged one rotting hand in the dangling strap of Glenn’s backpack before he’s able to swing around and get the bow up. The crunch of that one hittin’ home is extremely fucking satisfying.

They end up behind a two story backsplit in the kind of neighbourhood Daryl would’ve never been able to set foot in before the world went to hell, unless he’d gotten himself hired on to replace their shingles or tar their driveway. 

Glenn crouches down behind some azaleas running wild, looks at him over his shoulder. “What do you think?” he whispers.

Daryl eyes the property. There’s a sloping yard that leads to a ravine, and by the sound of it there’s a little stream down there, probably pretty as hell too. Least the damn geeks’d have to work at it to get at them from that direction. The house itself is dark and silent, the back door shut tight and all the curtains drawn. 

He stiffens at the rustle of leaves from the yard next door. Could be some night creature scramblin’ to get out of the way. Could be a walker. Could be fucking anything. And at this point, they got nowhere else to run. He shrugs. Just gotta hope for the best.

Daryl pushes on Glenn’s back to get him moving when the rustling gets louder. “Good a place as any,” he murmurs back.

It doesn’t take much to force the lock, and this time Daryl takes the lead. The search takes longer than he’d like, creepin’ down dark hallways with the kid jittering at his back. There’s a big screen in the family room, a games room with a pool table and a fully stocked bar. His eyes linger over the bottles of Glenfiddich until he notices the furrows on Glenn’s forehead. He straightens his shoulders and leads them on; tells himself that he does what he wants, he can always go back for the bottle later, he’s only leaving it now because it’s fucking stupid to think about drinking when there’s a goddamn walker horde practically on the doorstep. Not taking the bottle has nothing to do with the look on Glenn’s face. 

They make sure the second floor is clear before stopping in the master bedroom. The kid strips off his backpack and drops the empty gym bag at his feet, slumps onto one of the chairs. 

Now that he knows the place is secure, Daryl takes a moment to look around. Goddamn bedroom is the size of his old apartment, bed and two chairs and oak wardrobe and even some kind of dressing table where the old lady must’ve slathered on the war paint. Gaudy multi-coloured glass vases on display in a cabinet. What looks like a diamond bracelet on the bureau.

He sniffs. 

There’s an open suitcase half-filled with clothes on the bed – Daryl paws through ‘em quickly, ‘cause their own clothes are getting pretty fucking rank, holds up some garish print shirt by the tips of his fingers and wrinkles his nose. “Fuck,” he says, “wouldn’t be caught dead in any of this shit.”

Glenn’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You just went there?”

“What?” When the kid just looks down at his shoes, he lets the shirt drop and juts his chin toward the hallway. “Gonna check out the bathroom, see what drugs they got. You look around in here. Rich folks like this, they keep the weirdest shit in their bedrooms,” he says. “Then we’ll go through the kitchen. Fridge reeks, but we can load up on the cans at least. Might as well get some of the supplies we was sent for ‘fore this whole trip went to hell.” 

He pictures the grocery store they were hoping to raid, little hole in the wall place, one of them rare independents that fuckers in these bedroom communities still liked to frequent, made ‘em think they were supportin’ their community or somesuch. Should have been an easy in and out, stuff whatever they could find into their bags and then fucking book it out of there. Instead they barely made it halfway down the block toward the place before the geeks came out of the woodwork, spilling out from one of the side streets like a goddamn parade. Couple of ‘em were fast, too, lurching ahead of the others, nearly cut them off before Glenn spotted the alley and pulled him toward it. 

His mind tries to picture what would have happened to them if Glenn hadn’t been so quick, and he kicks out suddenly, sends the second chair toppling. “Motherfucking rotting bastards,” he spits out.

Glenn looks up then, eyes wide. “Dude, someone used to live here.”

Daryl studies the overturned chair before meeting Glenn’s eyes. “Someone used to live everywhere,” he says. He reaches down to snag the gym bag, heads for the hall before glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to check the shelf in the closet. They got a gun, that’s where it’ll be.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, he finds Glenn still in the chair, back straight and gazing across the room. He’s opening his mouth to give the kid hell, ‘cause they gotta move as soon as the last stragglers from the herd pass ‘em by, double back to the highway and get the car and get to their people. Maybe make a side-trip to that games room and grab a couple of them bottles before they leave; he can always tell the kid they’ll be good for medicinal purposes, like in those old time westerns.

Then Glenn’s eyes flick quickly to his, and the words die in his throat.

“You think they made it?” Glenn asks, voice raw.

Daryl follows Glenn’s sightline to the photo propped up on the dresser. Old geezer in a Mr. Rogers sweater, one arm tucked around the waist of a smiling grey-haired woman who must be his wife. 

He thinks to the heart medication he found in the bathroom cabinet, now tucked securely into the gym bag ‘cause you never fucking know. He thinks to the safety rail installed in the bathtub. Thinks about the lone smear of blood on the wall by the front door, the one he’s pretty sure Glenn didn’t notice.

Glenn’s eyes are big and wide, his throat working. Daryl doesn’t know what he’s seein’ in some photo of an old man and his wife, what memory that’s bringin’ up in Glenn’s head. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. 

But he does know that sometimes hope is all you’ve got.

“Yeah,” Daryl lies. “Yeah, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is now a sequel to this story: [Springs Eternal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/484227). (the cheesy title makes me happy.)


End file.
